


What the Body Feels

by Ickleroonilwazlib



Series: Mind, Body, and Heart [3]
Category: The 100
Genre: F/M, Smut, but pretty smut?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 14:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5166512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ickleroonilwazlib/pseuds/Ickleroonilwazlib
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Octavia finally remembers and then some. There be smut ahead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What the Body Feels

The weather is warm and Spring is in full swing, the breeze heavy and saturated with a sort of sweetness that only comes out at night. _At last_ , she’s having a good time, choosing to watch the Tri Kru dance and sing rather than join in. Clarke and Bell are somewhere on the other side of the roaring fire, honorary guests as always. It’s the first time they’ve come to the Spring celebrations though it’s purely by coincidence; the festivities started as a commemoration of their war victory, one which Octavia still doesn’t fully remember.

She doesn’t understand why the rest of the Sky Kru chooses to stay away; the alliance between the two clans was stronger than ever and their combined forces against the Ice Queen had proven true. Then again, Octavia is also just starting to feel comfortable with the Tri Kru herself—though for different reasons.

Her memory is slowly trickling back; the talks she’s been having with Lincoln seem to succesfully break down the walls in her mind. Bellamy may have been there for her entire life but Lincoln had been there for the two missing years and it was amazing just how much they’d been through. Though she couldn’t pinpoint which memories had returned, the familiarity of her life had returned and she felt a sense of deja-vu sitting here, watching the women in full warrior makeup dance and chant.

Octavia’s gaze turns to Lincoln as he evades the dancers, smiling at them as he denies their appeals to join in, making his way to Octavia with a cup in each hand. He should have joined the festivities, she instinctively knows. After all, it was partly thanks to him that they had won. He informed her he wouldn’t be, choosing instead to keep her company now that she was finally out of their home. As he walks towards her, there’s a blurry memory in the back of her mind of him shirtless and gleaming with sweat, gamboling around a fire similar to this one. She tries focusing on the image, feeling a bit peeved when she can’t seem to emphasize what she really wants to see: his muscles.

It’s silly, she thinks, for he is hers and she can have a look at him any time she wants. At least under normal circumstances. She’s still feeling a bit apprehensive to start ogling at him just yet.

He’s all smiles when he sits next to her, handing her a cup of liquor as he settles to watch the celebration grow louder and rowdier. The drums have been banging for the last couple of hours to a steady rhythm, the dances and songs learned from a young age, coming down from their elders and the elders before them. The choreography makes for some spectacular sights; the men are more acrobatic with the their moves, the women’s are centered closer to the ground, the chorus of their singing never ceasing even as the hours pass by.

“You’re fine with the noise, _suiyuu_?” he asks, his hand coming down to rest on her knee. She likes it when he does that; it was an unconscious movement , one he’s done hundreds of times before, and it makes her feel normal again.

“Yeah,” she responds but doesn’t have the courage to reciprocate his term of affection that’s hanging at the tip of her tongue. _Baiyuu_. Not just yet anyway. They’re content to sit together, occasionally talking to those who came up to them in various states of intoxication. He’s taken it upon himself to commandeer the conversations, something Octavia’s thankful for. She’s still in a strange place with his language; she can understand it but can't seem to speak it yet, despite Lincoln’s reassurances that she is quite fluent. Instead, she chooses to watch his jaw work when he speaks, the way his Adam’s apple bobs with each sip of liquor, his strong nose, his dark skin. She wants to taste the salt of his skin.

When the moon reaches its peak and the night seems to get darker still, the mood changes perceptively and the raucous celebration turns into some other animal. The warriors cease their clamor and their bodies turn to one another, the drums beating a far more primitive beat than that of war. The celebration of Spring starts, of rebirth and new life and she knows this in her heart because her limbs long to wrap themselves around Lincoln, a need already seeped into her blood from years prior and it knocks the breath out of her. After what feels like a lifetime, he feels her familiar stare on the side of his face; it’s the one she gives him when she desires him, no matter where they are, no matter who’s around.

“Let’s dance to this,” she says to him, brushing her knuckles against his jaw, her voice surprisingly sultry. God, she’s almost embarrassed at how much she wants him. Almost.

Octavia doesn’t let him answer. She throws a wicked smile over shoulder as she stands, brushing dust off the long skirt she’s decided to wear for the occasion, before offering her hand to him. His heart clenches at the look on her face. She’s beginning to look like herself again.

She leads him towards the fire, her hips swinging in rhythm to the music, looking more relaxed than she’s been the past few days. He feels free to let his eyes meander up and down her body; the high-waist skirt she wears accentuates her hips, her long legs look longer still in black boots, her favorite black shirt slightly faded and ripped. Octavia’s hand is tiny in his, the callouses on his palm bigger than hers but in the same spots, reminders of their lives together.

Even before reaching the fire, they’re already overheated, rivulets of sweat making paths down their bodies but none of that matters when he pulls her body close. Octavia knows she’s being immature but she can’t help but feel positively giddy at the feel of his biceps beneath her fingers, the way the finer tendons of his hands move when he takes her hand in his to kiss her wrist. Gods, that prickly jaw of his would be the end of her. She sends a private thanks to whatever gods seem to be favoring her by sending her such a fine specimen of a man.

The rest of her cognitive thought fly out the window when he kisses her temples, traveling down the sides of her face with a hint of restraint she doesn’t particularly like. She makes up for it by sliding his hand lower down her back, wanting to meld into him, to be closer and closer still. She’s not so much dancing as shamelessly rubbing up on him but there are others doing the same, bumping against them sporadically, seemingly lost in their own private worlds. Lincoln takes the hint and stops hesitating, a hand now cupping her ass while the other secures the back of her head (the pain she’s felt there for the last few days is but a laughable memory at the moment) leaning in for a searing kiss that has her knees going weak. Long nails dig into his back and side, the frustrated groan that escapes her lips sets him on fire, and he can’t resist pulling her hair back to kiss the column of her throat. Octavia points at the exact spots she wants to be kissed on, his mouth and tongue following orders as well as any soldier could, before capturing her finger with his lips and suckling it.

He’s no longer gentle with her. When he turns her around, it’s with a roughness she wants to melt into and her body mirrors the feeling, pushing back against him, a man made of hard and sharp edges—a man who, even as her memories deserted her, still left his mark on her body. The drums are now reverberating with the beating of her heart and out of the haze of her desire, she hears the moans of the people around her adding to the pulse of the spring night. The whistling starts as couples start to stumble away towards their home. It’s not meant to embarrass; it’s meant to bless the unions of that night. But Octavia doesn’t want to leave just yet. She wants to push against his unyielding frame, every feeling magnified by the heat of the fire, by the beating of the drums, by the way he bites the spot where her shoulder meets her neck and her knees buckle again.

“Gods I want you.”

She’s no longer embarrassed by the neediness in her voice. She knows this hunger intimately, threatening to overwhelm her if not fed. Without a single pause of hesitation, he turns her again and hoists her in his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist intuitively. The whistles are louder this time, with a few congratulatory whoops thrown in from those who know them well. She hears her brother groan from a distance and it has her laughing as she places sloppy kisses all over Lincoln’s neck and shoulder. She feels absolutely happy as he carries her back to their home.

The butterflies in her stomach return in full swing and she can barely wait for him to push her against the closing door before clawing at his shirt. His amused chuckle stops when she rips the shirt with a growl, never having been a patient woman, and starts biting a path down his shoulder. Sure-footed, he takes three large strides to their bed, placing her softly against the furs but for all the tenderness he has for her, she only has the burning fire in her stomach and she doesn’t hesitate to throw herself on him, finally tasting the line of muscles she’s been craving. Her fingernails scrape the skin of his chest, trailing after the open mouthed kisses traveling lower and lower, her ears perking at the sounds escaping his lips.

She makes quick work of his pants, desperate to have his skin on hers, to taste him and feel him squirm under her touch. He’s blazing hot and hard beneath her fingers yet soft on her tongue and nothing, _nothing_ makes her feel as powerful as the effect she has on him; no battle, no victory could compare to the groan he lets out when her tongue flicks at the sensitive skin of his head. There’s no finesse today. She wants to swallow him whole, like nothing else she’s felt in her life. His hand doesn’t reach out to stop her (he usually does, she remembers, always forgetting he should receive as much pleasure as he gave). Instead he holds her hair prisoner in one hand, the other coming to cup her face, to feel the muscles in her neck work as she takes him as deep as she can. His eyes aren’t soft anymore; they’re as dark as the night as he looks at her, a predatory gaze so intense she finds herself breaking contact.

Octavia lets him pull her towards him, helping him get rid of her clothes, all the while his eyes are on hers and it sets her on fire. He kisses her, tasting himself, taking everything she’s willing to give him and it’s not the usual gentleness of their many nights together. She alternates between sweet kisses and hard bites, grinding down on him with a furor she hasn’t tasted before. She doesn’t let him take charge either; Octavia wants him inside her more than anything else his tongue could give her at the moment.

They both make choked sounds when he finally enters her. The last few days were boiling down to this one moment; the fear he’d felt when she’d been knocked out, the frustration she’s had over the last few days, were now boiling in the pit of their stomachs. She litters him with marks wherever her mouth reaches, fingernails scratching her own symbols down his back, her hips moving in a frantic rhythm, despite his strong grip around her waist trying to guide her. She would be the end of him, he thinks.

Head swimming, he tries to find some of his bearings through the hot clenching of her body, but knows he won’t last long tonight. He does the only thing his hazy mind can think of and reaches between them, to that little nub that would soon earn him a cry of completion. He’s not dissapointed when her hips stutter at the touch, a sob muffled in his neck and she finally lets him take control. He works the slick pearl until he gets what he wants—it’s the way she tries to close her legs, tightening everywhere around him, her voice reaching a higher pitch of supplication until she loses her speech completely. The very feel of her clenching around him has him sinking his fingers into her hips so hard they’ll bruise and he follows her blindly, like he’s done ever since he met her, into that wonderful state of oblivion.

They fall back to the bed, Lincoln rolling them to their side as they try to catch their breaths. She breathes him in, sweat and earth rolled into one, with another smell she thinks is hers and it makes her smile widely.

“ _Baiyuu_ ,” she whisper against his chest. His ‘mmm’ in response is weak.

“This will be a good memory tomorrow.”

And with the faint sounds of drums from outside and her lover’s laughter, she’s lulled into an easy sleep.


End file.
